aFireFist
A Life in Westeros
Chapter 13 - Part 2
The fight was turning. His crew was bloodied but still standing. The pirates, seeing their advantage slipping and their ships falling behind, started to waver.
"Fall back, you dogs!" a pirate leader bellowed from the enemy deck. "They're not worth it!"
Adian, breathing hard, helped his men haul in the final grappling hooks. One last desperate pirate tried to jump across but was met by three spears at once. He died screaming before he even hit the deck.
By the time the last pirate ship broke off, its crew cursing them in half a dozen tongues—Braavosi curses, Lysene insults, and common trade-tongue filth—the deck of the skiff was littered with bodies and blood. Broken weapons, torn ropes, and slick red patches covered the planks. The sea around them churned with floating corpses.
Adian pressed a wad of clean cloth to his shoulder, teeth clenched tight against the burning pain. The wound wasn't deep enough to kill him, but it throbbed viciously and would definitely need proper stitching.
"Bind it tight," he told the ship's medic, a wiry Braavosi who was already moving toward him with needle and thread. "Make it quick. We're not slowing down for anything."
The medic worked fast, cleaning the gash and stitching it with practiced hands while the crew started throwing pirate bodies overboard. Adian winced but stayed on his feet, watching the horizon.
"You fought like a demon, ser," one of the crannogmen said, wiping blood from his spear. "Thought we were done when those three hooks caught."
"We weren't," Adian replied grimly. "And we won't be. Keep sharp eyes on every sail. The next ones might be smarter."
The rest of the journey was tense. Every distant sail on the horizon made the crew ready their weapons again. Adian spent long hours on deck despite the pain, shoulder throbbing under fresh, tight bandages. He walked the rails, checked the lookouts, and spoke quietly with the captain about alternate routes if more trouble appeared.
The wound kept him sharp. Pain had a way of reminding a man exactly what was at stake.
***
Braavos rose out of the mist like a fever dream carved in stone and water.
Adian stood at the rail of the battered skiff, one hand gripping the wood as the vessel slipped through the choppy channel. The wound in his shoulder throbbed steadily under the fresh bandages, a dull fire that kept him alert. He had barely slept the last two nights, eyes always on the horizon, but now the city itself demanded his full attention.
The Titan appeared first.
The colossal bronze statue loomed out of the sea fog like some ancient god standing guard. Its armored legs straddled the narrow entrance to the harbor, green with age and streaked with gull shit. The massive sword held ready in one hand looked big enough to cleave a war galley in half. As the skiff passed beneath it, the roar of the sea crashing through the Titan's legs was deafening — a constant thunder that shook the air and made the deck vibrate under Adian's boots. Salt spray exploded upward in massive sheets, soaking everyone on deck.
Adian stared up at it, jaw tight. Not with wonder. With cold calculation. Anything that big could be watched. Bribed. Avoided. Or, if someone was stupid enough, toppled. He noted the watchtowers built into the statue's base, the faint glint of armor on the men stationed there. The Titan wasn't just decoration. It was the first line of defense for the most secretive city in the world.
"Impressive, isn't it?" the captain muttered beside him, voice raised over the roar. The grizzled Braavosi wiped spray from his face. "Most foreigners shit themselves the first time they see it."
Adian gave a short grunt. "It's big. Big things cast big shadows. Easier to hide in the shadows."
The captain chuckled. "Spoken like a true smuggler. You'll do well here."
As they cleared the Titan's legs, the full city unfolded before them.
Braavos stretched out in a thousand shades of grey and red and faded gold. Hundreds of islands linked by arched stone bridges and narrow canals that cut through the city like veins. Flat-bottomed barges and sleek black pleasure boats moved constantly along the waterways, oars dipping in rhythmic splashes. Tall towers and elegant domes rose from every island, some leaning slightly with age, others gleaming with fresh tile. Laundry hung from windows on long lines, flapping like colorful banners in the sea breeze. The air was thick and alive — heavy with the sharp tang of salt, the mouth-watering smell of frying fish and spiced sausages from street vendors, exotic eastern spices drifting from merchant ships, and the underlying rot of sewage that flowed openly into the canals from thousands of homes.
Incense from dozens of temples mixed with woodsmoke and the sour stink of low tide. Somewhere a bell tolled deeply. Voices carried across the water in a dozen languages — traders haggling, boatmen calling warnings, women laughing from upper windows. It was noisy, crowded, and secretive all at once. Masks were everywhere. Men and women in colorful silks and plain wool alike wore them — laughing foxes, weeping moons, stern iron faces. In Braavos, identity was currency, and anonymity was armor.
Adian's eyes scanned constantly, missing nothing. He picked out the Iron Bank's grim, fortress-like building squatting on its own island like a toad made of black stone. Its walls looked thick enough to laugh at sieges. Further along rose the Temple of the Moonsingers, its silver domes catching the weak sunlight. Crowded markets spilled right down to the water's edge, where merchants in bright robes shouted over bolts of Myrish lace, casks of wine, and strange fruits from the Summer Isles. Faceless Men moved among the crowds like ghosts — grey robes, smooth featureless faces — silent reminders that in this city, secrets could kill you faster than any sword.
"Different from the Neck, eh?" one of the crannogmen said quietly, coming up beside Adian. The small man wiped blood from under his fingernails, leftover from the pirate fight. "Too many eyes here."
"Too many eyes everywhere," Adian replied. "The trick is making sure none of them are looking at you."
He paid the captain a fat pouch of silver on the dock, plus a little extra. "You did good work. Keep your mouth shut about this run and there'll be more."
The captain grinned, teeth yellow. "Always do, ser. Safe travels in the fog."
Adian slipped into the crowds alone.
He moved with purpose but without hurry, cloak hood up. First stop was a busy market square where he bought a plain grey cloak to replace his salt-stained one. He changed in a narrow alley, bundling the old cloak under his arm. Ten minutes later he traded that bundle for a cheap leather mask at a stall — nothing fancy, just a simple black half-mask that covered his eyes and nose. He paid with coppers and kept moving.
He took a public poleboat across the first major canal, standing among merchants and servants. The boatman chattered nonstop.
"First time in Braavos, friend? You look like you've seen fighting. That shoulder bandage is fresh."
Adian kept his voice low and bored. "Bad fall on the ship. Nothing serious."
The boatman laughed. "Plenty of 'bad falls' in this city too. Watch your purse and your back."
Adian changed boats twice more, each time picking smaller, less crowded canals. He doubled back once, pretending to browse a spice stall while watching for tails. No one seemed to be following, but caution had kept him alive this long. Only when he was certain did he approach the quiet district where the safehouse waited.
The modest manse was tucked along a narrow side canal, its walls plain grey stone, windows shuttered. Nothing that would draw attention. Adian found a small tavern across the way with a good view of the street. He sat in the corner for nearly an hour, nursing a cup of watered wine, watching servants come and go, noting every face that passed. A woman selling fresh bread. Two boys chasing a dog. An old man pushing a cart of empty wine barrels. Nothing suspicious.
Finally satisfied, he crossed the street and knocked on the plain wooden door in the exact pattern Lira had been told to expect — three slow knocks, two quick, then one more.
The door opened a crack. Lira's familiar face appeared, her eyes widening slightly at the sight of his bandaged shoulder and the mask he still wore.
"You're here," she said quietly, relief clear in her voice. She stepped back and let him inside, closing and bolting the door behind him.
Adian pulled off the cheap mask and tossed it onto a side table. "Trouble found us. We handled it. How are they?"
Lira studied him for a moment, then gave a small nod. "Alive. Healthy. Waiting."
The house was quiet and well-kept. Simple but comfortable. Thick stone walls kept out the damp sea air, plain wooden floors were swept clean, and sturdy furniture filled the rooms without any wasted space. Nothing screamed royalty. No gold leaf, no dragon banners, no expensive tapestries. Exactly as Adian had instructed years ago through his intermediaries. A modest merchant's home on a quiet canal — safe, unremarkable, and easy to defend.
Adian stepped through the narrow hallway and into the main courtyard. Sunlight filtered down through the leaves of a small lemon tree growing beside a simple stone fountain. The gentle trickle of water mixed with the distant sounds of the city — boatmen calling, gulls crying, the faint ring of a temple bell. It was peaceful in a way few places in Westeros ever managed.
Three children were playing under the dappled light.
Viserys looked up first. The boy was eight now, all sharp angles and restless energy. His silver hair was a bit messy from running around, and his violet eyes held a mix of suspicion and barely contained excitement. He gripped a wooden practice sword tightly in both hands, the tip pointed at the ground.
"You're the new tutor?" Viserys asked, his voice still high with youth but trying hard to sound commanding. "Lira said you know real fighting. Not just the pretty forms the others taught me. She said you've actually killed men."
Adian met the boy's gaze evenly. "I do. And yes, I have. We'll start training tomorrow morning if you're ready to work hard. Real fighting isn't pretty. It's painful, dirty, and it leaves scars. You still interested?"
Viserys's eyes lit up despite the warning. He gave a sharp nod. "I am. I need to be ready. When we take back what's ours, I won't be some weak boy hiding behind skirts. I'll make them pay for what they did to my father."
Adian gave a small, noncommittal grunt. The boy had fire, that much was clear. But fire without control got people killed. "Good. We'll see how much work you put in."
Before he could say more, Rhaenys approached. She was a bright-eyed girl of six, with the same silver-gold hair as her brother but a much softer, curious expression. She studied Adian openly, tilting her head as she took in his travel-worn cloak, the bandage on his shoulder, and the faint smell of salt and blood that still clung to him.
"You smell like the sea," she said with a quick, sunny smile. "Did you fight pirates on the way here? Your shoulder is hurt. Does it ache a lot? I can get some herbs if you want. Lira taught me which ones are good for wounds. I know the difference between the ones that help and the ones that just smell nice."
Adian couldn't help a small twitch at the corner of his mouth. The girl was sharp and kind in equal measure. "Pirates, yes. A few of them. The shoulder stings, but I've had worse. Herbs would be welcome later."
Rhaenys beamed, clearly pleased. "I'll pick the best ones. Mother says I have a good eye for plants. I even helped Lira make a poultice last month when she cut her finger."
Little Daenerys, barely two years old, didn't bother with questions. She toddled straight over without a trace of fear, her chubby legs working hard on the uneven stones. She grabbed onto Adian's leg with both small hands and looked up at him with enormous violet eyes and a wide, gap-toothed grin.
"Up?" she demanded, bouncing slightly on her toes and reaching with both arms.
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